by J. S. Monroe
“We just need to ask her a few questions, establish her movements since she arrived at Heathrow,” he says. “Strover here is working on yesterday’s passenger lists, but it would help if we could narrow it down.”
Susie is not convinced, and seems too embarrassed to look at him. It’s obvious what’s going on here. She no longer thinks the woman is Jemma Huish. Last night all the talk had been about her not making another big mistake in her career. When Silas had first met her, Susie was a partner at a practice near Devizes but had to leave under a cloud, following a tragic misdiagnosis that was picked up by the national press. She told a mother her seven-year-old daughter was suffering from gastroenteritis, and sent the girl home with instructions to drink lots of water. Two days later, she was dead from acute appendicitis.
“I know it was me who called you, raised the alarm,” she continues, keen to justify her change of mind, “but I have to consider what’s best for her—as a patient, her rights—and this morning she’s too fragile to be interviewed. I’m sorry.”
Silas glances over at Strover, who is sitting impassively. She must think he’s an idiot, coming here in person, only to be fobbed off.
“Perhaps you could take the DNA sample for us,” he suggests to Susie, trying to be more conciliatory. It was going so well earlier—before she started getting all Hippocratic with him. If she’s suddenly concerned about patient’s rights, she shouldn’t have called him last night about Jemma. He can only assume she’s lost her nerve, worried that she might lose her job again if she doesn’t play by the book.
“She doesn’t want to give one,” Susie says. “She’s adamant.”
And he knows Jemma doesn’t have to agree, not unless she’s been arrested, and there aren’t exactly grounds for that at the moment. Not on the basis of a GP’s late-night hunch.
“That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?” Silas says. “In her position, I’d do anything to establish my own identity.”
Susie continues to avoid eye contact with him. “There’s something else going on—her blood pressure was very high when I saw her yesterday. Possibly white coat hypertension, I’m not sure.”
“Fear of doctors?”
“Latrophobia. She’s not exactly keen to go to hospital either.”
“Don’t blame her.”
Silas often passes the Great Western Hospital on his way to the police station at Gablecross. Not his favorite building—his father died there last year.
“I’m currently working on the assumption that her amnesia is the result of anxiety, some sort of emotional trauma,” Susie continues. “I thought it might be work-related stress, but maybe there was an actual event of some kind, some traumatic incident that triggered a dissociative fugue. She talked about a friend of hers who died.”
“Name?” Silas asks.
“Fleur—that’s all she could remember. Didn’t know when or where she’d died. This initial period is crucial as her brain begins to process what happened. It could be the key to unlocking other memories—establishing who she is. I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize that.”
“Maybe I could talk to her,” Strover offers. She doesn’t look up at Silas either. The woman’s touch. He’s not proud. Whatever it takes.
Susie hesitates, glancing at her screen. “Today’s a mess,” she says. “Jemma was meant to see the mental health nurse at nine, but she’s called in sick.”
“Where’s Jemma now?” Silas asks.
“With a colleague next door. What she needs is to be admitted into a specialist unit, preferably the Cavell Centre, but they’ve got no beds. No one has. That’s the problem. How long do you need with her?” she asks, pointedly addressing Strover.
“Ten minutes?”
“Sneak a photo if you can,” Silas says. A positive match with a passport that went through Border Force yesterday could sort this in no time.
“Not without the patient’s consent,” Susie says, shooting a look at him. This is becoming awkward.
“I’ll leave you women to it, then,” Silas says. He had been planning to invite Susie out to dinner this week, but his enthusiasm is waning.
Fifteen minutes later, Strover gets back into his car, where he has been waiting, making calls, feeling a fool. She has finished her brief interview with Jemma.
“Anything useful?” he asks, keying the ignition.
“I think she’s hiding something.”
CHAPTER 23
I sit down on the edge of the bed in my room. It’s not much—a poky space in a former stable block at the back of the pub, up an old flight of wooden stairs. The ceiling is low, and the room is an odd triangular shape with bare floorboards that are pockmarked with woodworm. There’s one small window, and a thin flowery curtain that will struggle to keep out the light in the morning. The only redeeming feature is an upright piano in the corner. It looks ancient, probably once used in the bar downstairs. I walk over, sit down on the threadbare stool and lift the lid. The keys are stained and several white ones are missing their covers, but it’s still in tune. The notes come easily, which surprises me.
After a few minutes’ playing, I stand up and walk over to the window, feeling calmer. I can see School Road below, including Tony and Laura’s cottage at the far end. And then I see Laura walking down to the station on her own with a wheelie suitcase. She cuts a tragic, lonely figure. Did I look like that when I arrived? A part of me wants to rush down and tell her I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. But I know that nothing I can say will reassure her. It will only make things worse.
I watch until Laura has disappeared out of sight and lie back on the bed. I’m tired to the core. The mattress is as hard as stone, and I’m not convinced the sheets are clean. I lean over and sniff the pillow. It smells of fabric conditioner, which is something, I guess. It’s a relief to be on my own. I’ve been asked too many questions this morning, prodded and probed like a criminal. First Dr. Patterson, then Sean, talking Russian from behind a tree. What was that all about? And finally Detective Constable Strover, who saw me briefly with Dr. Patterson. Routine questions, mostly about my arrival at Heathrow and what I think happened to my bag. I wasn’t able to tell her anything more than I had told the others.
I need to write everything down. Dr. Patterson, who walked me over here after the interview, has asked me to construct a timeline forward from my arrival at Heathrow, using my written notes each night. She says my eventual goal is to extend the time line backward too, into the darkness of my previous life, building on the few things I appear to remember: my arrival at Heathrow Terminal 5, my flight from Berlin. No chance of that, not at the moment. I like Dr. Patterson—she says she has a daughter my age—and don’t want to disappoint her. I don’t want to disappoint anyone, least of all Laura. One day I hope I am able to explain to her what went on in Germany, why I ended up here in this village, at her house.
CHAPTER 24
Luke’s glad he doesn’t have to commute into London every day. His train is late to arrive, and the Tube is crowded with dazed commuters, glazed eyes avoiding contact. Jemma would have been one of them, on her journey from Heathrow yesterday. He can’t imagine how she must feel. No happy memories but no regrets either, just living in the present—“in the moment,” as Laura’s always urging everyone.
He needs to find out who Jemma is. And if he discovers a bit more about himself along the way, so much the better. Ever since he’s become single again, his life has felt at a crossroads. He’s too embarrassed to talk to Sean about it. Midlife crises are so boring for other people. His late wife once said that men either have an affair or run a marathon. He’s done neither.
It was a bit of a wrench switching from national newspapers to a classic car monthly, but his working life had to change when she died, for the sake of Milo. He came to classic cars late, after his father-in-law left them a vintage 1926 Frazer Nash Boulogne in his will.
A couple of years later, after her death, Luke had it restored in her memory. If it wasn’t having its gear ratio changed in preparation for a hill climb at the weekend, Luke would have driven up in it to London today rather than taken the train.
His first task, on arrival at the magazine’s dingy offices in Clapham South, is to take a call from a pompous reader who’s upset that the magazine is always too hard on the Bentley Boys of the 1920s. The reader has rung in before and is usually fobbed off by the magazine’s edgy young deputy, Archie, but this time he sounds persistent. Luke won’t take the call as himself, though. He will become the magazine’s fictitious editor in chief, listed on the masthead as Christopher Hilton. Whenever there’s a difficult reader, the sulfurous Hilton is rolled out.
“Are you sure you want me to put you through to him,” Archie says, as he looks across at his boss.
Luke rolls up his shirtsleeves, aware that Archie can’t stall for much longer. The rest of the magazine’s young staff gather to listen.
“I’m putting you through now, sir,” Archie says, “but I must warn you that Mr. Hilton is very busy and he’s, well, he can be a bit of a nob.” He nods and connects the call.
“Hilton,” Luke says, deepening his voice at the same time as raising it.
Luke listens as the reader struggles to find the right words.
“Come on, come on,” Luke says, “I’ve got Queen Margrethe of Denmark holding on the other line.”
A bit OTT, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. The magazine is running a feature next month on the seven-seat Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith favored by the Danish royal family since 1958.
Luke has to gesture to his staff to keep down the sniggering as he listens for another couple of seconds of bleating about Woolf “Babe” Barnato before he signs off with a loud “pleasure.”
“Send him some Skoda stickers,” Luke says.
Luke enjoys working at the magazine, nurturing the talented young staff. He glances at the Rolls-Royce spread, marks up a couple of changes and opens his emails. There’s already been a response from a request he sent out on the train. After the thirtieth anniversary school reunion last year, a bunch of his old friends set up a group email, and Luke has used it to ask if anyone has had any further thoughts about Freya Lal’s whereabouts.
The replies are mostly flippant (“Let her go”, “thirty years—maybe time to move on, Luke?” etc.) but one of Freya’s closest friends at school has emailed him privately. “Please let me know if you find Freya,” she writes. “I miss her.”
Luke looks up from his screen at the office and realizes he misses her too. Perhaps he should jack in this job, buy a ticket for him and Milo and head off to India in search of her. He’s about to look up ticket prices when he gets a text on his phone. It’s from Laura.
Can you call me? Lxx
Two kisses. He tries not to read anything into it—Laura is blissfully married—but his heart skips a beat.
CHAPTER 25
A knock on the door of my room in the pub. I sit up on the edge of my bed and check my clothes, pulling down my shirt at the front.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“I’ve brought you lamb curry, a dish from my home place in Kabul.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Come in.” I watch as a stocky, Asian-looking man puts a plate of steaming food down on the wooden bedside table. He rearranges a glass to make some space, and then places a fork beside the plate.
“My name’s Abdul,” he says, standing back, one arm diagonally across his chest.
“From the cricket team?”
He smiles proudly. “They say you have problems with your memory,” he says, hovering at the open door.
“That’s right,” I reply, wondering who “they” are.
“Me also. There is much I want to forget. Sorry if I call out in the night. My brother says I am noisy in my sleep. We are just down the corridor.”
“Don’t worry. And hey, I won’t remember anything in the morning, will I?”
He looks at me, not sure if I’m joking. After he’s gone, I pull out yesterday’s notes from my jean pocket and read through them. The reverse of the second sheet is blank. I look around for a pen and find a plastic one in the back of the drawer in the bedside cupboard. I’m not hungry, but I also don’t want to offend Abdul. His curry is delicious—full of fruit and nuts—and I manage to eat half of it. Putting the plate on the floor, I start to write, using the bedside cupboard as a desk. There is so much to cover. When will Laura return?
Someone is on the stairs. Another knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say for the second time in five minutes. No peace today. It’s Tony.
“Jeez, you can’t stay in this dump,” he says, stooping his head as he walks into the room. He’s holding a brown paper carryout bag.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Smells like a Karachi curry house for a start.”
“They brought me lunch. Abdul, the cricketer. From Afghanistan.” I gesture at the plate of curry on the floor.
“I bought you lunch too. Hummus and falafel wrap with coconut milk yogurt and fresh mint.”
He passes me a brown paper grocery bag, like the sort you see in American movies.
“That’s very kind,” I say, taking it. “Thank you.”
“I was thinking, do you want to come over to the gallery? Help me hang some pictures? It doesn’t seem so healthy, you sitting around in here all day.”
“It’s not that bad.” I look inside the bag at the neatly prepared wrap and place the bag on the floor beside the plate of Abdul’s curry.
“What is this?” he asks, holding the curtain in his hand. “A shower drape? And you’ll get splinters from this floor.”
“I haven’t actually got much choice. Not until a bed comes free.”
“That’s another reason I came around. You could stay at our house again, if you want. The spare room’s still made up. I can sleep downstairs, on the sofa, if that makes things easier.”
“What about Laura?” I ask, watching him pace around my small room, stopping to scuff at an uneven floorboard with his shoe. I know Laura has left the village, but I want to hear it from him. “I’m not sure she would be so keen on the idea.”
“Laura’s a little loose in the saddle right now,” he says.
“Not because of me, I hope,” I say. I’m being disingenuous. I must be the cause, given how she’s reacted to me.
“She’s gone to stay with her mom for a few days.” He walks over to the window and stares down on School Road, his back to me. Has Laura already caught her train?
“It will do her some good,” he continues, his back still to me. “A break from this place. Moving house can be very stressful. We’re only just recovering.”
“She thinks I’m a killer, doesn’t she? Jemma Huish.”
He turns around, looking me straight in the eye. “I’ll admit the cops turning up first thing unsettled her. Quite a heavy-handed response for a lost handbag.”
“What do you think?” I ask, managing to hold his gaze.
“I don’t think you’re about to slice my throat, if that’s what you mean,” he laughs, turning back to look out the window, resting his hands on either of the wooden frame.
“Thank you—for trusting me,” I say. “And for the offer of a bed tonight. I’m fine here, really. I’ve caused enough grief as it is.”
“Think about it,” he says, walking towards the door. “And come over to the gallery for an English cup of tea. It’s not all tofu and kale, you know.”
“Tofu sounds good. And kale.”
“Great.” He raps a knuckle on the ancient wattle and daub panel beside the door, as if he’s testing it. The wall sounds thin and hollow. “I could also do with some help hanging a new picture.”
“I might just do that. After I’ve had a r
est.”
“Good luck with that,” he says, looking around the room again.
“It’s nice of them to let me stay here.” I pause, watching him leave. I take a deep breath. “What is it with the seahorses, by the way?”
He stops at the door and turns, his blue eyes locked on to mine.
“I’ve always liked them,” he says. “My goal is to photograph all fifty-four species in the Hippocampus genus. Top half horse, lower half sea monster. There’s a lot of cool mythology around them. And they’re kind of memorable, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 26
Luke looks around the small space—the “writing room,” as everyone calls it—and turns to the screen again. He hasn’t called Laura back—there are limits to his chirpsing. If it’s urgent, she’ll call him. The writing room is off the main open-plan office, somewhere peaceful for staff to come to finish an article. Or to take a nap on the sofa after a heavy lunch. It was his idea. There used to be a similar room at his old newspaper until it was converted into a “quiet area” with high stools and nowhere to sleep.
He often comes to the writing room with his proofs, but he’s here this afternoon to continue his search for Freya, away from his nosy secretary. After checking the price of flights to India, he decided it was cheaper to find her online. In recent weeks, following his breakup, his searches for Freya have been idle and random, like he’s on some sort of an uncommitted virtual rebound.
He types her name into Google Images and sifts through the photos he’s come to know well. Freya Lal the cheerleader, Freya Lal the lawyer, Freya Lal the Australian porn star with pneumatic breasts and a “mapatasi,” none of them bearing any resemblance to his former girlfriend. No wonder he hasn’t found her.
He needs to be more focused, systematic, but it’s not easy searching the subcontinent for a Lal. It’s like looking for a Smith in Britain. And she’s probably married with a different surname. He tries to cast his mind back to the graduation ball thirty years ago, the last night he saw Freya, hoping for a clue that might narrow his search. They were lurking in the shadows, away from the dance floor where proud men were dad-dancing with their drunken daughters. She had tears in her eyes and seemed on the point of telling him something, but when he had pressed her she said it was nothing and went to get a drink. She was flying back to the Punjab with her parents the next day, as she did every summer, and had given him an address to write to. He wasn’t allowed to meet her parents that night. They didn’t know she had a British boyfriend, and she wasn’t about to tell them. Instead, he had watched them from afar, noticed how Western they had looked, like Freya.
